


Kingdoms will burn...

by ph_craftlove



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, World of Warcraft: Legion Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-12 01:40:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7915531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ph_craftlove/pseuds/ph_craftlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thrall stares at a dancing fire, at a blackened burial mask and suddenly realizes that he made the wrong wish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kingdoms will burn...

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Королевства обратятся в пепел](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7915468) by [ph_craftlove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ph_craftlove/pseuds/ph_craftlove). 



> This is the first time I've written (or rather translated) someting in English.

_You’re a shooting star I see_  
A vision of ecstasy  
When you hold me, I’m alive  
We’re like diamonds in the sky

_— Rihanna Diamonds_

Thrall closes his eyes trying to get rid of the dull ache in his chest, in his beating throbbing soul, as translucent as Lo'Gosh’s fur. He fails.

He is nagging, suffers from continual melancholy. He wonders, again and again, what is the worst? Vol’jin’s death? Or maybe the fact that Thrall had no chance to say his final goodbyes?

Thrall blames himself constantly. He wasn’t strong enough. He was knocking senseless, he didn’t _back_ Vol’jin, didn’t spring to defense, didn’t die for him, or _instead_ of him…

Thrall seems calm. But his gaze, blue like serene sea flowing around Echo Isles, is so sad that occasional passers look aside prudently. He doesn’t seem worried about it, though. He worries about nothing because the world does not even exist anymore. There is no sky with drifting clouds, there is no Mother earth, who has given him power once, there is no water and no air. There is nothing hold on to a belief to and _he_ is not here anymore. _He_ who tilted his head respectfully, who led the armies, who had the power to persuade even a dead man, who knew how to love without asking anything in exchange, who gave all he once had. _He_ is now gone. And all that left are death and fire.

Thrall is gripping a fistful of something hard, sharp, and bony but because of being in distress cannot remember what it is. In an all-out effort, he raises a hand and unclenches the fist. It is a piece of matte and brightly white tusk lies in his calloused palm. Thrall looks down and it feels like something gets broken deep inside of him. He finds himself gasping for air.

All he needs is to take just a few steps to the death bed. Vol’jin lies there so calm, so strong and glorious. It seems he had somehow escaped a hateful influence of the fel. One can be even fooled that he is still alive but his bright and sparkling soul is far away from here.

Maybe Vol’jin is with his loa now. Maybe from that very moment and till the end of times he will look down on Azeroth and give his valuable advices to his beloved trolls and the new Chieftain of the Darkspear. And Thrall is all alone there. He is all alone in the eye of the storm and among the foreign unfamiliar faces.

He is craving for silence. He wants to remain alone on the windy estrade near the Orgrimmar gates. But it is impossible. Because the Warchief is dead and his people are grieving.

Thrall hears trolls mourning, beating their drums, and even dancing…

“Why are they always dancing”, he wonders weary.

He closes his eyes and sees visions of the past: warm sand, giant bonfires with sparkles flying to the dark sky, harmonious drumbeat, flame-red hair smell like summer rain whispering in a forest, skin blue as a velvety sky, quizzical gaze, proudly raised tusks, one of which is now… Thrall inhales loudly.

He remembers the smell of Vol’jin’s hot smooth skin, his hard muscles, supple body, and the delirious ginger hair in his croach—the embodiment of all love and all madness.

He was still here yesterday. Vol’jin was still here. He was riding his beloved raptor and looked at Thrall with affection.

Thrall finds it very hard to lift his head, to look forward, to take these few steps. He thinks, maybe if he were stay just like this with his head low, it would be a little chance for him that all of this is just a twisted nightmare. And he would wake up then on his woolfell bed hard breathing in a clammy sweat, open his eyes and see Vol’jin lying beside him looking concerned. And Thrall would hug him so hard that the troll will choke, nestle against his messy ginger hair and stay here forever whispering silly things.

 

Suddenly a gentle touch on his shoulder makes him shiver and for a blissful moment, he believes naively that this might be… Just might be…

“Thrall, it is time,” says Sylvanas with a hint of sympathy (or so he believes).

 

***  
The torch burns the skin of Thrall’s hand. He sees only darkness and the future flame of the death pile before him. He takes the last glance at his friend’s dead body. Vol’jin seems so peaceful, even relaxed and looks painfully lean. Thrall whispers his final goodbyes. It is so hard for him to breathe but he says all these little things he forgot to share earlier and then asks Vol’jin almost shyly to appear in his dreams. Maybe just once. Just one last time. Please.

He doesn’t bother himself to listen to Sylvanas’ fiery speech, or to mourning and screaming of the crowd. He drops the torch slowly, oh so slowly and takes a few steps back. Numbly and speechless he watches as the fire eats up his friend, his brother, his lover, the only living creature he ever loved.

With a severe grief, Thrall remembers a question Vol’jin asked him once, a lifetime ago. They were so young, so fierce. They lied on a warm sand of the Echo Isles, near the sea close to each other, still hard breathing after the lovemaking; and Thrall was fascinated by the droppings of semen sparkled as little pearls.

“Eh, Warchief,” said Vol’jin quizzically as always, “If ya were makin’ a wish, wut would it be like?”

“I would found the Horde that will conquer all of Azeroth. I would make it strong, hard and proud,” Thrall answered fiercely without even thinking. “And you, Vol’jin, what do you want?”

The troll laughed quietly and stroked his beautiful belly.

“Vol’jin wishes stay close to da Warchief,” he said hoarsely.

 

Thrall stares at a dancing fire, at a blackened burial mask and suddenly realizes that he made the wrong wish.


End file.
